Nightfall
by trascendenza
Summary: An Alternate Reality fanfiction that takes place in Berlin 1933, just as the Nazi power is coming to power in Germany. Jack is a cabaret dancer and Ennis is a struggling painter. This is an attempt to explore familiar characters somewhere new.
1. Part I: Dusk, Kapitel 1: Searching

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these characters—that honor goes to Ms. Proulx._  
_

_January 31, 1933_

Jack's hard-tipped shoes made music on the cobblestones, metal against stone, _click clack, click clack,_ punctuating each tired step he took. Fog had swept through the city, the street lights shining weak through heavy distortion. He pushed through a world of grey; the wide sidewalk, lonely asphalt, glistened slick with in the wet night and reflected the ash of the softened skies. The University to his left was equally grey, a ghost-building in the amorphous light. The gates were locked tight, lions atop the columns roaring their voiceless threats into the silence of a city sleeping. Jack spent most his nights like this, meandering home from the clubs, giving himself over to the embrace of nocturnal anonymity. Although the hot light of the stage was his life, the solitude and stillness of the not-quite-morning was his spirit, his balm.

He cut across the Platz, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact with the few stragglers leftover from the night's reveries. He'd woken up more than one morning in this very spot, mouth gritty with dirt and no memory of how he'd arrived there. He was a little older now, a little wiser; he only woke up in strange beds, nowadays. Pulling out his last cigarette for the week, he lit it with care, exhaling the smoke in a forceful stream to join the colorless nightscape. He stopped out front of his building, leaning against the uneven red brick, tilting his head back and savoring the end of the cigarette, held delicately between this thumb and index finger.

When he'd inhaled the nicotine to its bitter end, he flicked the stub away and took his keys out, pushing his weight against the dark wooden door when it stuck. Up the stairs to his third floor room, hardly more than a shoebox but fine for the time he spent here, he poured himself a nightcap and discarded the heavy black jacket. The brandy warmed him from the inside out, and he began to shed his form-fitting dance gear, wriggling out of the black garments and washing his face quickly in the bathroom sink to get rid of the pasty powder and rouge he wore. Finally, he sat on his bed, untying his shoes, halfway into his dream already. A scrap of white caught his eyes—a piece of a flyer had caught on the bottom of his left shoe. Detaching it, he held it up to the light from the window to see what it was, scowling when he recognized what it said, _Wählt Hitler_.

"_Scheiße_."

Vote Hitler, indeed. There was no need—he'd been elected the new Chancellor of Germany yesterday. Jack crumpled up the flier, disgusted, and threw it in the garbage.

Some days he didn't even feel at home in his own country anymore.

* * *

Dabbed into the burgundy red, gashed across the pebbled white surface; blood on the snow, a nipple heavy with lust standing in relief against innocent skin? A touch of burnished yellow, a clue to the light, whisked along the edge. Cerulean crept into lavender, pigment branching like veins. In the whorls of hue, a pattern began to take shape, the curve of a cheek lit from the side, an expanse of flesh rendered so finely that it seemed as if it would start respiring any moment. The brush moved along the canvas, resisting ever-so-slightly under Ennis's delicate touch, and he placed the final stroke, stepping back to evaluate his work with a critical eye. 

The shape of his room was sketched by the looming shadows dancing the in the candlelight; the only thing Ennis had learned in his semester in Vienna, rich with experiences but stingy on education, was that the essence of a painting's rendering could only be appreciated in the proper light. But he liked the trickery of the dark, the necessity for the viewer to re-adjust perspectives with every shadow's movement; he never picked up the brush before dark any more. His days were spent sleeping or dashing off portraits on the corner for tourists or rich fools—he didn't even consider that to be art, it was merely wasted motions for meaningless pieces of paper.

He sat in stillness before his piece for quite some time, eyes roving over every detail, not moving a muscle. The candlelight sunk, flickering over his face, highlighting the pale cream of his complexion and catching flares of golden fire in his eyelashes when it hit the right angle. Even his breath seemed to crawl through him, cautious of disturbing his reverie.

When his clock chimed the half-hour with its dented bell, he stood, walked before the painting, gripping it by the side and, in one clean motion, punched his left fist through it.

"_Scheiße_."

Maybe tomorrow night.


	2. Part I: Dusk, Kapitel 2: Encounters

_ February 1, 1933  
Berlin, Germany _

"Won't you try it on tonight, _liebchen_. _Bitte schön_?" Sabine's mouth, blistered pink, was pouty, "The audience will love you for it."

"_Nein_." Jack sighed, "You know that I won't." He applied the last of the powder to his face, heavily caked. The room was flush with heaving bosoms and the tang of excited perspiration, a sea of bodies tucking, buttoning, and squeezing into pre-performance contortions. Jack could see Loreen's disembodied leg rising and falling behind his reflection as she stretched, touching her knee to her ear and back down again.

"Fine, but don't come to me if Niko kicks you out of the show." Sabine stalked off, tripping over the frills coming off the dress she'd wanted Jack to wear. He just shook his head and smoothed his hair back, and turned to Loreen, rotating slowly so she could evaluate his attire, "_Schön, ja_?"

Her eyes, outlined in heavy kohl and accented with red, started at his feet and worked their way up, taking in the black suit and the perfect cut, hugging all of his curves, somehow sensual despite the crisp edges. "_Immer, mein Freund_." She smiled, "But I cannot say you look much like Hindenburg."

"Who will care? Certainly no one in our audience. And you _know_ it is the acting they come to see, not those." He raised his eyebrow at Loreen's chest, lifted and separated, powdered into a pearly luminescence. Her lips, glistening cherry, looked garish up close, the curse of stage makeup; it was only intended to be viewed from a distance. She pursed those lips, and rolled her eyes at him, and flipped her tightly curled hair in his direction.

"_Komm jetzt_ . The curtain rises."

Showtime.

* * *

Ennis, floating in a warm haze from a imbibing a veritable waterfall of amber liquid, made his way through Potsdamer Platz, leaving behind four aborted canvases and twelve proposals for a bed to share. He'd met Alma on a night like this, not long after returning from Vienna, a dark haze curling around her face in his barely conscious state and he'd asked if she was angel, come to take him. Taken him she had; her ring was gold was manifest proof. She said it was his eyes, that night; she had thought he was on the verge of tears, and had to help him. 

But he couldn't remember the last time he'd shed one.

Whatever the impetus, he would not look at another motionless face, another slab of flesh, with its roiling contours, destitute of value or beauty. He walked through the crowds, carefully avoiding contact, removed from the collective consciousness of the flow of bodies, like a piece of detritus floating atop the currents of the gutter. He balled his hands into fists inside the pockets of his coat, thick black wool, collar flipped up against the cold. Turning onto Leipziger Straße, the noise increased tenfold, rife with discord—but rising above the drone was a melody, sweet in its clarity, and he veered his course to the source. The Cabaret Shangri-La. He'd never been here, despite living nearby; Alma found nightlife, for the most part, sordid, especially the cabarets. She disapproved of their satire, the erotic costumes, the propensity for silliness juxtaposed against critique of society. He decided it sounded interesting and entered, handing the host a few crumpled marks and removing his coat, revealing his shirt, discolored by paint and other unidentifiable stains. A sickly sweet smell assaulted him, an amalgam of nicotine, ladies' perfume, sweat, and sour breath, and squinting his eyes at the air, laced with acrid smoke, he took the first seat he could find.

The woman on stage was a lovely apparition, attired in lush velvet, the shade of dark red wine, thin face framed in black curls that hugged her cheekbones, accentuating their terrain. He noted the high arched eyebrows, mostly likely crafted by careful plucking, the full lips, the swell of her hips in the folds of fabric—but it was her voice that held his attention, husky with a tint of desire wrapped in sorrow, _Ich bin sehr müde, mein Herr, so müde, aber ich liebe dich_. Ennis gnawed at a hangnail, crossing and uncrossing his legs; he failed to notice what was so sordid about the show. She finished her number and the emcee, attired in a suit sparkling with sequins, began to speak, "_Applaus, bitte_, our very own Loreen Naumann, star from _Mädchen in Uniform_! _Applaus, bitte_!" His enthusiasm and the pitch of his voice increased as he to discussed the main event of the evening. Ennis ordered a drink, surveying the room in more detail, eyes tracking the patterns of the moldings and the golden chandeliers.

"_Und jetzt_, our entertainment for the evening, _Hindenburg in Uniform_!"

The show was supposed to be a parody of the film _Mädchen in Uniform_, except that the cast of stars, instead of a boarding school full of lesbians, were politicians in drag. He had only seen bits of the film, far more concerned with woman in the seat next to him than the ones onscreen. He was halfway out of his seat to leave when the actor playing Hindenburg came onstage, and he stilled, sitting down once more in slow motion, breath halting in his very lungs and eyes watering with the need to blink.

Ennis watched him like a sinner begging for repentance, mouth falling open and parched eyes drinking in the sight. Every gesture, every step was fluid, in perfect time. His performance had no pretenses, no airs; his attire and makeup were almost stark in their simplicity, but this was a man who had no need of them—he slipped into the character as easily as breathing.

Art in motion.

When he left the stage, Ennis sketched desperately on his napkin—it was cloth, but he'd pay the restaurant if they complained—fingers practically trembling with the need to pick up a brush, one eye on the lookout to see what he'd return. He worked the charcoal into the cloth in jerky motions, hands rapidly soiled with the efforts. He ground his teeth for want of a canvas.

By the end of the show he was a bit more composed; he paid the host for the napkin and tablecloth, which they were kind enough to put in a paper bag for him, and went to the restroom to wash up. He scrubbed his hands, watching the sinkwater wash the black particles away, but didn't bother with his fingertips—they were permanently black—and splashing cold water on his face, he squared his shoulders and headed backstage, squeezing his way past the crowd in front of Loreen's dressing room.

He made an educated guess and tried the door after hers, unadorned except for a small wreath of dried purple flowers and peeling brown paint. After the second knock, he heard a muffled _Hallo?_ from inside and cracked the door open. The man was sitting at his vanity, using a towel to vigorously strip the makeup from his face. He was no less stunning up close. A tight, hot band closed around Ennis's chest.

"_Guten Abend_," He croaked out.

The man turned, a surprised expression on his face. "_Achso! Entschuldigen Sie, bitte_," he apologized, and quickly got up, coming to the doorway, hand extended, " _Ich bin Jack. Jack Schwarz. Wie geht es Ihnen, mein Herr_?"

"_Ich bin Ennis… Demarien. Mir geht's gut, danke_ ." They shook hands in front of the modest dressing room, and Jack gestured for him to come in. Ennis sat across from him, fidgeting in the frail wicker chair while Jack wiped the last of the makeup off his face and then turned to face him.

"A pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you, Herr Demarien?" He asked, offering him a cigarette. Ennis accepted with a nod.

He let Jack light the cigarette, vibrating slightly in his fingers, and took a drag before speaking. "Well… I am a painter." He took another long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs, savoring the burn.

"I can see that," Jack said, laughter in his eyes, nodding his head at the paint-stained shirt.

Ennis crossed his legs, leaning forward, and cocked his head at Jack.

"…I can pay you," he said, slowly, almost like it was question.

"I am not one to turn down money, _mein Herr_, but I would like to know _what_ it is you can pay me for."

Ennis flushed slightly, leaning back again as if repelled by his own idiocy. Biting his lip, he tried one more time.

"Will you model for me, Herr Schwarz?"


	3. Part I: Dusk, Kapitel 3: Muses at Play

_February 4, 1933_

_Berlin, Germany_

Jack leaned over his coffee, pouring in cream bit by bit, stirring it into a vorticity, white dispersing into the dark brown. Looking up at Dr. Abraham, he shook his head. "I do not agree with Frau Sanger about the 'feeble-minded,' Abraham. She has a very harsh view towards them." Sitting back in his seat, he sipped the hot beverage, letting the flavors play over his tongue.

"Her view towards them is very progressive, Jacob. What would you have the state do with them instead? In an ideal world they would not reproduce of their own volition, but as she has observed, we are far from an ideal world." Abraham stirred his own coffee, face heavily shadowed by the low lamps lighting the café. The shop was abuzz with conversation, many cups and plates lay abandoned, forgotten in the ongoing battle of philosophical debate; arms chopped the air to emphasize a point, fingers pointed in accusation, but by the time the dessert was finished, hugs were exchanged and promises of meeting again were arranged. The world of academic bohemia was a schizophrenic one.

"Progressive though it might be, I cannot endorse it." Jack shrugged, sliding his spoon into his chocolate cake, thick and rich, drenched in raspberry coulis.

"You are always about ten steps ahead of the progressives, _Mein Freund_. Ever thought about slowing down and joining the rest of us mere communists?"

"What a strange bunch they are. They might think they've envisioned Utopia, but I must argue that any society functioning on those principles would be the most boring place on earth. I doubt they'd allow the cabaret, and without that, what would I do with myself?"

"True enough. How was your last performance? I heard that _Hindenburg in Uniform_ was a smashing success."

Jack sighed. "It went well enough, I suppose. Sabine and Niko are still pushing for me to do more comedy. I'm starting to see why my father forbid me from joining—the art of cabaret is being lost. Not like it was when he was performing; now we can only touch politics with the softest of kisses. After the Weimar Republic ended they practically burned the politicians with hot fire brands."

"You would have fit right in. Fifteen years too late, not much to be done. Unless you want to become a revolutionary, _ja_?"

Jack laughed, licking chocolate from his spoon, tongue red like the inside of a plum. "_Nicht für mich_. That's more your line of work than mine. How goes your latest case, _Doktor_?"

Abraham shrugged, "She's well, recovering nicely from the surgery. I'm afraid she still isn't as feminine on the outside as she is on the inside, but I will do whatever I can to help her."

"'Gender re-assignment' is such a bland name for what you do. I think you should change your title from 'head of sexual forensics' to the 'champion of the inner psyche.' What do you think?"

"_Wundebar_! I will let Hirschfeld know right away about the change in my status." Abraham shook his head, laughing. "What are you doing tonight? Your next show hasn't started yet, has it? Giese is having _eine Fete_ later, why don't you join us?"

"As tempting as it is to exchange repartee with you all night, I have a prior engagement." Jack bit his lip, smiling a little, "I'm modeling for a painter."

Abraham raised an eyebrow at him, "And what is he like?" He chuckled, "More importantly, does he like men?"

"_Er ist… interessant. Und weiss ich nicht_. I certainly hope so, though. He is a lovely specimen."

"I'm sure you will not hesitate to use the many charms at your disposal, _Schatz_."

"We shall see. He may be one of those who would rather fuck a painting than a person. I will report all the sordid details to you once I've created them."

"_Prima, prima. Also_, see you tomorrow at the Institute." They rose, paid for the coffee and cake, and kissed on the cheek.

"Send my greetings to Giese and all."

"_Jawohl. Und Viel Glück, Mein Freund!_"

"_Danke. Bis später, Abraham._"

Buttoning up his coat, he walked down the street, hearing the clock chiming seven. The sky, draining into twilight, was steel blue interspersed with lilac, the evening's last clouds scattering into oblivion. He lit a cigarette, flares running up along the ragged edges of the brown paper. Exhaling, the plumes billowed in front of him, screening the blue of the sky through a smokescreen. Coming to the street sign, he mentally reviewed the directions Herr Demarien had given him—he'd asked for Jack to arrive just after the sun set. Jack smiled.

The most exciting parts of his life always occurred after night fell.

Ennis paced the room, rubbing his clammy palms up and down his thighs. Sketches were scattered beneath his feet, crumpled and trodden, futile attempts at capturing the movement of energy that he'd seen two nights ago. Even his daywork had suffered; the portraiture was merely acceptable. He'd felt obligated to lower his prices, something he had never considered doing before, even at the threat of physical violence. Sweat sheened on his chest; he'd tossed his shirt aside hours ago, burning up with frustrated heat and yelling obscenities at it, sure it was constricting him somehow.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the knock on the door, looking around at the chaos of his room in a panic. No time to clean. He ran his hand through his hair and threw on a shirt without bothering to button it, eating up the floor space to the door in three large strides. He laid his hand on the cool door handle, hesitating for just a moment before opening it, breath trapped by a tempest of emotion in his throat. He swung it open to find Jack standing before him.

"_Guten Abend, Herr Demarien._" he said, holding out his hand.

He was no less stunning than two nights ago.

Ennis wiped his hand on his thigh again before taking Jack's, barely remembering to whisper an "_Abend_" in response before he let go. Stepping back, he gestured Jack into the room, an attic studio with sloped ceilings, beams spearing the air. The decorations were spare to none, all available surfaces covered with candles, brushes, paints or rags and the walls devoid of anything to break up the expanses of white.

Jack entered, carefully stepping over the sketches on the floor, looking around with interest. He stopped in the center of the room, unwinding his scarf from around his neck, "_Hier ist gut, Herr Demarian_?"

Ennis nodded, standing at his easel, arranging his brushes and palette. Jack discarded the scarf onto the bed, slipping out of the rest of his clothes piece by piece, layering them into a pile on the blanket until he stood completely nude. Ennis's throat worked but no sounds emerged. He didn't understand why his heart began to race; he'd seen more models in his life than he could count. Nudity was as natural to him as breathing—this man, however, seemed to be stealing the very air from his lungs.

"What would you like me to do?" Jack asked, one hand on his hip, the candlelight splaying yellow soft across his skin, highlights blushing on his curves.

Ennis swallowed, trying to find the saliva to wet his tongue.

"Would you… dance for me?"

Jack shrugged, "_Ich kann_. What kind of dance would you like, _Mein Herr_?"

He could barely answer, lost in the luminosity of Jack's skin, "_Bitte_…whatever comes to you. I will sketch tonight." He pulled out his drawing pad and charcoal, perching himself on the stool. "Let your body move you."

Jack's expression slowly transformed from confused to radiant; a smile grew from the corners of his mouth, organic, until the laugh lines gathered around his eyes. "It has been a long time since I have had an audience for this," he said, taking a deep breath and shaking his limbs out.

Jack crouched quickly, arms curled under his chest, wrapping into himself, tucking his head down and under. Then, with such precision and fluidity that Ennis saw no movement, he unwrapped, vertebra by vertebra, uncoiling one muscle at a time until he was standing once more, arms and legs spread to their fullness. The only sound in the room was the scratch of grit against paper and slow, rhythmic breathing.

He sketched in absolute silence, worshipping Jack's movements with his charcoal. They picked up speed in time; legs swinging swift arcs and arm muscles tensed into sculpted lines of grace. The pebbly black dashed across the paper over and over trying to imitate the sensuous curvature beginning at the neck and ending just below the buttock, the volatility of the physical undulations. Jack's feet began to _thwack_ against the floor as his dance evolved, a flurry of sinuous motion that coursed with the blood in Ennis's veins, created melodies in his mind that sang of desire and passion and want. When Jack struck his final pose, left leg behind him and arms trailing, as if he were about to jump forward into the abyss, the charcoal snapped clean in two in Ennis's hands.

He could have cared less.


	4. Part I: Dusk, Kapitel 4: High Tide

_February 4, 1933_

_Berlin, Germany_

The heat flew through him, arcing through every vein, igniting every pore until he thought he might die of it, burning swaths flush across him as the sweet-slick friction mounted, the tempo sliding faster and harder, a melody composed of golden skin that slid across his tongue in tantalizing brevity, the precision of a man's body moving in motions that begged the viewer to surrender, depths of eyes brimming with cobalt smears. Those eyes asked questions no man can answer except with a kiss, promised redemption in the sins of the flesh. Ennis was lost, tried resist the oncoming tide, the force carrying him into mindless bliss, but he was not strong enough; the cobalt of the oceanic sky engulfed him, swept him into a release that bordered on agony for its intensity. He screamed it to the night, wordless yet named.

He rolled over, wiping his hand on the sheets soaked with his sweat, and bit into his pillow, groaning.

It was not always an advantage to have a vivid imagination.

* * *

_February 5, 1933_

"Don't you like your _Brotkartoffeln_, Ennis?" Alma tilted her head at him, frowning slightly, her blonde braid swinging with her movement.

"_Entschuldigung._ My mind was on my work," he said, blinking a few times and trying to regulate his breathing. He speared three of the fried potato slices, gleaming with oil; they tasted like salted cardboard.

"How are your latest portraits?"

"Hmm? Oh, the portraits are fine."

Her eyebrows, finely arched—Ennis had admired their shape many times—came together over the bridge of her nose, forming a crease, "Then… what were you thinking about?"

He coughed, a piece of pork chop lodged in his throat. "I'm, ah… starting a new series."

She nodded, eyes interested, looking at him as he thumped a hand on his chest, trying to dislodge his discomfort which had nothing to do with the stubborn meat.

"Well, I might submit it to a gallery. It's nothing, really."

Alma smiled to herself, "I see." She recognized a brick wall when she came up against one. She slid out of the chair, _Kletterjacke _slung across the back, going to the kitchen for to start the water boiling for coffee. "Did I tell you? Hannelore was disbanded today from our_ Jungmädelschaft_, " She shook her head, fingering the wooden leather knot that held together her black neckerchief, the membership symbol she had worn for the past year. "They found out she was three-eighths Jewish. Unbelievable, _ja?_"

Ennis grunted, demolishing his potatoes with his fork. He looked around the room; he had no appetite when he was in here. He squinted at the plaque above the kitchen, dark wood etched ominously with the words _Tue recht und sheue Niemand_—do right and fear no man. He raised an eyebrow, snorting a little. Alma's mother has been busy re-decorating, exchanging floral patterns for equally appalling floral patterns and re-arranging her collection of small figurines, tiny children and various contortions of Christ positioned throughout the room so that anyone who entered would feel watched, no matter where they sat or stood.

Ennis was in the midst of a staring contest with a chubby young girl herding sheep, boring into him with her judgmental green eyes, when Alma set the coffee down in front of him.

"Have you asked Herr Müller about the _Hitler Jungend_? They are not so strict about ages, I am sure they would let you in." She offered him milk and sugar, both of which he declined.

"_Ich kann nicht_. You know that, Alma." He drank half of the coffee in one sip, savoring the deep burn on the way down.

She sat down again, twisting her engagement ring around her finger, "Ennis, don't you understand what an important time this is for our country? We are reclaiming our very way of life. I know you will regret in years to come if you are not a part of our movement. It is a once in a lifetime opportunity."

Ennis shrugged, non-committal, still giving the shepherdess an eye evil. "No time. Maybe after I finish the series."

"That reminds me. Ilsa was telling me yesterday that we need a new poster for our _Jungmädelgruppe_, do you think you could paint one for us?" She smiled shyly, "They said that if you did it perhaps I could be in it."

Ennis's face darkened, lips pursed tight, a quick slash of his head, "_Nein_."

"_Warum nicht?_" She tilted her head, eyebrows furrowed, at a loss. "We can pay you."

"You think that is what I care about?" Ennis asked, disgusted. He cut off her response by pushing his seat back, folding his napkin and placing it carefully on the table. He nodded politely, "_Danke für das Abendessen. Ich muß leder gehen jetzt._"

And then he left without another word.

* * *

_April 22, 1932_

_Akademie der bildenden Künste Wien_ (Academy of Fine Arts Vienna)

"_Tut mir leid_. I cannot accept this submission, Herr Demarien." Joseph Jäger held the portfolio—the black folder that contained the summation of Ennis's four months at this institution—between two fingers, away from his body, as if it were infectious, and didn't bother to look up from his paperwork.

Ennis's words were barely above a whisper, laced with ice, "_Warum nicht?_" He did not take the portfolio, though the tips of his fingers rubbed together and his lower eyelid trembled slightly.

"You have demonstrated no understanding of the assignments; you have consistently stepped out of their bounds, and instead of focusing and honing your considerable talents as we had hoped when you were accepted, you insist on these puerile pursuits. It is unacceptable."

Ennis's mouth was hard and tight. "It was my _understanding_ that I came to this institution to learn, Herr Jäger." His throat worked, adam's apple a barometer of his rising desire to snatch the portfolio and burn it, and he scraped his shoes against the wine-red carpet.

Jäger sighed, looking up from his papers. "Your skill for rendering is nearly incomparable, Demarien, why can't you see that? You can create a portrait finer than any photograph, with such clarity that your viewer feels as if he could step inside. Why do you treat this like it's a hindrance instead of a gift?"

Ennis averted his eyes, roving over the shelves bulging with heavy tomes, lined up to the centimeter like soldiers, taking in the warm light surrounding the elegant desk lamp in a yellow glow and the texture of the oak paneling, feeling as if he were inside the bowels of a tree.

An artist's eyes are never at rest.

He looked at Jäger, expressionless. "It means nothing to me." He grabbed the portfolio, leaving it in the trash on his way out of the building, and left for Berlin that very night.

* * *

_February 12, 1933_

_Fifth modeling session_

Ennis studied his canvas carefully as Jack dressed, pulling on his black pants, which even buttoned fell low on his hips, hair peeking out from the waistline in invitation. He watched the rapid transition of Ennis's face from thoughtful to annoyed, a brief second of surprised, and then back to thoughtful. Smiling to himself, he decided he was content to be the watcher instead of the watched for a few moments, and sat on the bed, arms propped behind him. The flickering candleglow flared soft on Ennis's hair, curling as he changed angles, tawny and wild, a halo of Botticellian beauty.

His shirt, once white but now a veritable canvas in itself, fell open at the neck revealing hints of skin, glimpses that had Jack swallowing heat. Ennis's jerky movements and rapid metamorphic expressions finally slowed, and he pulled the stool in front of the canvas, sitting with his legs on either side and hands on his knees. He sat with the solidity of a statue; he didn't even blink, eyes watering with the ferocity of his concentration. Jack's could feel his breath coming faster, wisps of desire coalescing in front of his mouth, tongue darting wet want on his lips. He could feel the waves of passionate zeal from across the room, radiating off his body, and when Ennis's eyes widened as he leaned forward, lips parting, Jack's legs opened of their own accord, hips jutting upward in a blatant statement of Ennis's power.

A low sound came from deep within his throat, a husky rumble that ripped straight from his groin, and Ennis's head jerked away from the painting to Jack, eyebrows slamming together at the sight of his request, lingering on the bulge pressing up against black fabric, the language of physicality speaking volumes. His eyes were an inferno, raging wordless assent, and in seconds, he was crossing the room, canvas and stand knocked to the floor, and Jack rose to meet him halfway, bodies crashing and smashing and melding together all at once, fire steaming into vapor as it met water.

He took Jack's mouth, from the inside out, tongues battling to own and caress and slide deeper, groaning desperation into each other's throats. Jack's hands twined into his hair, holding handfuls of golden fire, hips grinding and pushing, Ennis's hands on his bare skin, leaving behind trails of smoky charcoal across his back, sliding down into his pants and pulling him so close that they breathe as one, heartbeats synchronous song, every nerve throbbing to the hilt with desire for more. Grinding into the softness, faster, faster, feeling Jack meet every thrust and rise to it, perfect give and take, and the waves rolled down on him once more; he looked into his salvation, the startlingly clear depths of his inspiration, and he was lost at sea once more, roaring all his passion into the sweetness of Jack's mouth, hips seizing with the strength of his release, epileptic joy-agony, and together they fell onto the bed, drained of everything except one last kiss.

Ennis had looked into those eyes; they asked questions no man can answer except with a kiss, promised redemption in the sins of the flesh.


	5. Part I: Dusk, Kapitel 5: Crossing Lines

_February 13, 1933_

_Cabaret Shangri-La_

"So who is he, _liebchen_?" Loreen asked, pulling her eyelid downward and carefully applying kohl to the lower lid, mouth open in concentration.

"Who is who?" Jack said. He was reclined on the chaise, the centerpiece of her dressing room; most likely the centerpiece of her sexual encounters as well, but he chose not to think about that.

"The man you are thinking about instead of your performance," she said, rimming the upper lid more heavily, black soot against her pristine white skin.

Jack pulled his leg up to his shoulder, resting his hand on his calf, "That bad, am I?"

Loreen looked over her shoulder, smiling through the cascade of her hair, "Anyone who laid their eyes on you tonight knew, _Schatz_." She walked her fingers delicately through the mountain range of make up jars on her vanity, hiking the tops until she picked out a small one full of rouge.

"_Also_." Jack switched legs, "Not everyone is as perceptive as you, but your point is taken. If you must know, he is a painter."

"_Ja_?"

"A quite good one."

"_Und…_?"

"_Und was_?"

She turned her chair around, pulling her creamy white stockings higher on her thighs, looking at him skeptically. "You haven't even slept together have you? And already you are a lovesick puppy."

"_Du bist_ _meine Mutter_, Loreen? Last time I checked I already had one."

"Well, she would have heart murmurs to hear half of what you do, dearest, which is why I fill in for her." She secured the clips of the garter to the stocking, careful of her long fingernails on the fabric.

"I know what you're thinking."

She merely raised an eyebrow at him, adjusting one breast in her corset, pulling it up and out while tightening the ties, and then the other.

"This won't be another Niko."

She dusted white powder onto her chest, chin down to watch her work, careful to keep the plumes from dispersing too far. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." He sat up, pulling his arms behind his back and clasping his hands, arching until his shoulders stretched, ribs opening up and out. "I don't think he's ever been with a man, for one."

"You kid."

Jack chuckled, "I have my suspicions."

She got up out of her seat, pulling a dark indigo-lace dress off her changing screen, slipping into it. "There's a woman, then?"

Jack folded from the waist, falling forward, resting his on his knees as he looked at Loreen. "_Also…weiß ich nicht._"

"Don't tell me he's a virgin!" Loreen said, fingers paused in the midst of fastening the mother-of-pearl inlay buttons that glinted up the front of her dress.

Jack grinned mischievously, "I hope not… but I would not be surprised."

"So what _do_ you know about this man, Jack?"

He unfolded, leaning against the back of the chaise, draping his body on its sumptuous curve, and smiling like he'd been waiting for that very question, the corners of his mouth curled in satisfaction.

"He kisses better than any fuck I've ever had."

Loreen eyes went heavenward as she tried to suppress a grin, shaking her head, "Well, I'm happy for you. I can't imagine how you'll react to the real thing." She coiffed her hair, stabbing various pins in it mass of curls, "But have the two of you spoken more than a handful of words to each other all these nights you've been modeling?"

"He is not one for idle chatter."

"Have you tried?"

"…no."

"Promise me you will. You know I will worry until you can tell me what you've gotten yourself into."

"Why is this so important?"

"Marlene had the same effect on me, my dear. And now she's off in America making movies."

"Herr Demarien is not like Marlene."

"Promise me."

He rose from the chaise, placing his hands on her shoulders. "_Ich werde, Mutter._"

"_Danke, liebchen_." A hug, faint red lipstick marks on both his cheeks, and they left the dressing room, taking their places behind the curtain and just before the curtain rose, Jack said over his shoulder,

"But I am not responsible for what might find its way into my mouth during our 'conversation.'"

* * *

_February 14, 1933_

_Sixth modeling session_

Jack laid his jacket on the back of his chair but he did not remove the rest of his clothing. Ennis said nothing, swallowing convulsively, busying himself by clearing a space next to his canvas. He laid out his brushes and the rinsing bowl, the clear glass letting the light diffuse through the water, and pulled his stool forward, propping up the sketch pad against his knee.

Jack stretched, raising his arms above his head and then bending at the waist, moving fluidly into a series of slow kicks. When he saw that Ennis was ready, he moved into dance, a subtle but breathtaking shift. Every dance he did for Ennis was a unique expression unto itself, raw emotion distilled into movement. Jack flowed sinuous as water, waves and motion and translucence, yet below the surface, ran deep and calm, like a raging waterspout revolving around the eye of the storm. Ennis slashed his hand across the paper, back and forth between the vision in front of him and the pale imitation in his lap. It was exhilaration and frustration all at once to see the fount of his art but not to be able to drink from it.

Jack progressed from staccato twirls into exquisitely controlled poses, sweeping his leg in a wide arc from the floor, up to his shoulder, and back down. With each new movement he slowed ever further until he was moving at the speed of sight, and Ennis threw the sketch pad down to stand before his easel. Jack effortlessly sank into stillness, arms diagonal to his body, head raised in supplication, face thrown into profile. Ennis frantically squeezed colors from the tubes of paint, red into white, brush flying over the pebbled surface of the canvas, splaying ribbons of hue across the virgin surface in his haste to manifest what was before him.

After twenty minutes had crawled by, Jack lowered his arms to his side, closing his eyes and breathing deep, shaking his muscles out to prevent stiffness. Ennis stepped back from his painting, setting down his brush and putting his hand, clenched, in front of his mouth. Jack stretched lazily, loosening up the tight spots, and went over to stand next to him, glancing at the painting. It was magnificent, rich in color and utterly three-dimensional in rendering, yet Ennis's shoulders were pulled up tight and his fingers twitched.

"You do not approve, _Mein Herr_?"

Ennis jerked, turning to face Jack, taken aback. "How… how did you know?"

Jack smiled, "It was the way you are moving. Your hands twitch like they want to tear it apart."

Ennis grimaced, shoulders dropping, "It's not what I want."

"What is it that you want?"

He chewed on his nail, mumbling past it, "I… I'm not sure. But it's so close. I can feel it, throbbing in the front of my head." He moved his fingers to his forehead, stopping just short of touching, as if he could draw it out.

He placed a hand on Ennis's shoulder. "You will find it."

"How do you know?"

"I have faith in you."

Ennis shied, looking away; the muscles of his throat moved but did not work. Picking up one of his brushes, he fingered the fibers, unable to look at Jack. "I should—_achso_, I wanted to apologize."

"Whatever for?" Jack took another step closer, not removing his hand.

"I was most unprofessional," he said quietly, rolling the brush in his palms.

Jack suppressed the smile threatening at his lips, "I was not troubled in the least, _Mein Freund_."

"You are my model, I cannot—it's not right—"

Jack placed two fingers on Ennis's lips, stalling the string of meaningless consonants.

"I wanted it just as much as you did."

Ennis closed his eyes, fine features drawn, "_Aber_—"

Jack trailed his fingers along Ennis's jaw, catching on the sharp edges of golden hair, and up under his chin, pulling his face up until they were eye to eye. "It's alright." He withdrew the brush from Ennis's loose fingers, setting it on the stool, and took Ennis's face in his hands, running his thumbs along the hesitant angularity, seeing the request that could never be articulated nestled deep in the clear amber pools. "It's alright." Ennis drew back just a bit, mouth ungiving, but melted under Jack's gentle inquiry, a sliver of sunshine warming his skin. Their lips were drawn together, two opposite poles crossing the choppy oceans to join, the craggy mountain of their desire rising from the waves. The kiss was gentle and fierce all at once, an inferno rushing through the dark corridors of their uncertainty and igniting a connection that reverberated in the currents of their blood.

As the waves receded, the waters calmed, foreheads pressed together, breath coming uneven and quick, fingers crisscrossed and feet locked to the spot, reeling from the impact.

"May I stay, _Herr Demarien_?"

The word fell off Ennis's tongue like it was the first true word he'd ever spoken, "_Bitte_."


	6. Part I: Dusk, Kapitel 6: Crossing Lines

_February 15th, 1933_

Jack stirred in the rumpled bed, burrowing in deeper to the covers, tangled thoroughly in his legs. He breathed deep of the pillow, rubbing his nose into the coarse cotton and smiling as the cloying scent filled his lungs. _Ennis_. They had yet to call each other by first name—for that matter, they were still using _Sie_ to address each other, yet those five letters already felt more familiar to Jack than his own cumbersome name—Jacob Benjamin Schwarz. He wondered what Ennis's middle name was. Did he even have one? He'd heard Ennis leave very early this morning, before the light was skirting the horizon, and caught a glimpse of his face profiled against the blue-grey of pre-dawn just before he was gone.

"Ennis Demarien," he whispered into the pillow, claiming it as his own, savoring the sibilant between his teeth and the catch of the purring consonant in the back of his throat. His body hummed, still imprinted with afterimage of Ennis, burned onto his skin like an overexposed negative, and he held onto it until the last of the definition faded. Opening his eyes, he turned himself to the world of the living, blinking at the harsh sunlight cutting across the attic, untangling the vined blankets from his legs. He was up and out of the bed in a quick roll, padding across the hardwood floor, reaching down to pick his far-scattered clothes and slinging them over his shoulders on his way to the WC. He relieved himself, still nude; he had come to the conclusion that wearing clothes in this attic was like being nude in church. It simply was not done.

He piled his clothes on the kitchen table, frying two eggs for breakfast, lonely inhabitants of the icebox, and eating them off the single chipped orange plate in the cupboard, he surveyed the abode in its entirety. His feet smacked lightly on the rough hardwood as he walked to the pile of jutting angles and frames in the center of the room. Kneeling, he licked the runny yolk off the fork, frowning as he examined a canvas crushed on the floor, marred by footprints, wooden supports snapped like kindling. He set down the plate, running his fingers over the paint, smeared into brutish finality, fingering the jagged edges that spoke volumes.

"_Mein Gott._"

What had Ennis been destroying—the artwork, or its subject?

* * *

Jack closed the door behind him hard, dropping his weight back on it, breathing like he'd forgotten how, hands pressed to his forehead and fingers tangled in his hair. All day his concentration had flickered on and off like a mis-wired street lamp, but now it blazed bright, honed in on an image that undid him as surely as it saved him: Ennis, burned in candleglow, skin luminous, his jaw unhinged, body thrown back in an invocation to the gods of the flesh. Jack groaned, knees buckling and heart racing, sank to the floor. As he fought to gain control, there was a distinctive _tatta-tat-tat_ on the door behind him. 

"_Ja_?" He replied in a short burst air.

"It's Niko—may we speak?"

Jack got up, carefully placing his feet to maintain his balance. He stepped back, grimacing. "Saying 'no' won't do me much good, will it?"

"_Nein_." Jack tried to compose himself, opening the door to find Niko Liedermann filling its frame, looking at him wryly, his impossibly malleable eyebrows radiating annoyance, condescension, and disbelief all at once.

"You knew what you were doing when you spoke to Herman today." Niko stepped past him, entered the room, and draped his long frame onto the black couch, legs sticking over the edge, elongated and bird-like. Jack sat across from him in the rounded wicker chair, averted his gaze.

"I thought we had worked this out." Niko interlaced his fingers, long and slender just like the rest of him, bridging them across his stomach and looking pointedly at Jack. "I have indulged you as far as I can. We tried it your way. _Annalise_ was performed to your exact specifications, and all week we had nothing but complaints. I am still hearing about your _Hindenburg _performance as well. Yet… you still try to tell us what to do. Tell me the logic in this."

"I was _not _ telling him what to do—I just made a small—"

"Jack—the agreement was that you would not make _any _'suggestions' on about how we ought to run our business."

Jack sighed. "_Ich weiß_."

"_Ja_? _Und dann_? You went straight to Herman after rehearsal."

Jack wrung his hands, getting up out of his seat and pacing. "_Scheiße._ This show is _scheiße_ and you know it." He chopped his hands in the air to drive his point home, "We've been planning that satire for over a month, and instead we're doing some cheap comedy act? I'm not sure whose time you're wasting more—ours or the audience's once they see this farce of a show—"

"Jack. If you will please sit down—I'm happy to explain."

He shut his mouth on all the words he'd prepared, still crawling along his tongue, itching to be spoken. He clamped down on them, smoothing his hands over his thick linen shirt, and sat once more, crossing his legs. Niko swung into an upright position, leaning his elbows onto his knees, eyes burning into Jack. "From what I gather you didn't bother to ask why; as always, you assumed the worst. Had you given it a few moments of thought, you would have realized Herman could have explained this whole situation to you."

Jack's jaw clenched, and when he looked into the mirror for an escape, Niko's face stared back at him, all flawless white skin fringed in soot-black hair that stopped just short of his eyes, the color of burnt chestnut. Jack's adolescent pain was traced in those features, still beautiful to him even after their truth had been revealed. He had been drawn into the sight like a curious child to a glinting knife—the dangerous is an irresistible lure in the eyes of the naïve. But now, running his finger along the blade, he found that it had no bite left, no cut, and he held Niko's gaze with no difficulty.

"Times are changing, Jack. There is a new party in power… we have to watch where we step. One of our competitors went out of business earlier this month. Usually that would be a reason to celebrate, _nein_, but there are rumors that it was more than just poor revenue that closed the doors of Kade Koko.

"Sabine also told me she saw _die Polizei_ at Eiermann's and Felix's, _und jetzt—_they are boarded up. It may be coincidence but I'm not willing to risk my show on that. Are you?"

Jack shook his head reluctantly. "_Nein_."

"_Gut_. I knew you would see reason. These are just precautions; I'm sure when things settle in a few months this we will all have a good laugh about this. Now—what's this about you refusing Sabine's costume choices?"

"You have plenty of dancers to wear those ridiculous clothes and you know it, Niko. Why must we go through this song and dance again?" Jack opened the drawer to his vanity, mahogany smooth under his hands, withdrawing his facecloth and containers of powder he needed for tonight. He placed them in front of the mirror, gilded in snakes of brass, and stood, stepping behind his dressing screen, stripping down with no discomfort.

"I may have plenty of others, but none with your body, your looks. I can guarantee that in drag, you would sell us out every night." Jack shot Niko a look over the screen, face etched in concrete and eyes shaded overhangs.

"Well, think about it." Jack stepped into his undergarments, saying nothing. Taking the hint, Niko got off the couch, pausing halfway out the door.

"Avoiding drag doesn't mean you're any better than the rest of us mere cabaret dancers, Jack—don't forget that." He shut the door behind him a little harder than necessary.

But Jack just smiled, humming under his breath to the tune of Ennis's breathing.

* * *

The steam stretched clumped and irregular against the sky, drowning-blue and vacuous with the absence of clouds. The beast roared forward, trailing its remains as it hurtled on the tracks, wheels beating out a fixed tempo, _chug-a-chug-chug-a-chug, _the cherry red of the driving shafts blurred into the coal black of the beast's body. It crossed paths with another of its kind, wind slicing between them, the twin plumes of steam laid out like a set of insubstantial tracks in the air. They separated at one hundred twenty kilometers an hour, displacing the atmosphere. Coming to an obstacle, the beast screeched to a long halt, metal on metal scratching a nails-on-the-chalkboard whine in all directions, caressing Ennis's eardrum with a deep pressure. He didn't even notice; it was a well-worn sound. He flicked the cigarette butt to his feet, grinding it into the ground, shoved his hands deep in his pockets, walking along the tracks, gravel crunching under his heels. 

He heard the crossroads before he saw them; the alarms blared an unmistakable warning to oncoming traffic. It was incredible to see the trains stopped in their progress, seemingly impermeable to all outside influences, the fortresses of iron and steel yielding to the soft-grained wood lowered before them. But stop they did, obeying the power of silent command and avoiding the glory of fatal collision. Ennis watched for what must have been hours, the words _Deutsche Reichsbahn-Gesellschaft _circling in his mind every time he saw the faint lettering on the body of the locomotives, lulled into a state of mechanical meditation as the minutes flew, carried on the pumping wheels.

He roused when the light of the day dimmed, thoughts slow and tentative, cold creeping under his loose sleeves and raising the hairs along his arms. Standing, his knees popped, joints protesting the long inactivity. He headed for home, mind already fifty paces ahead, restored and invigorated.

Time to paint.

* * *

_February 18th, 1933_

Ennis laid the brushes and palette on the waist-height wall, slightly off-kilter on the uneven surface, and adjusted the canvas to stand centered on the easel.

"_Es ist fantastisch_…" Jack's voice wafted out from behind four huge stone slabs, jutting out of the earth in criss-crosses, somber slabs standing guardian to the entrance of the forest. He re-appeared on the other side, placing his steps carefully on the slippery ground. "And so close to the city, it is unbelievable."

Ennis smiled a little, nodding, and swirling the hog bristle into the green oil, he began to lay it around the edges of the canvas, a few flakes of gypsum dusting off.

"Whenever you are ready," he said, laying out color foundations and using broad strokes to capture the gentle swells of the quarry. The area he had chosen was dappled in sunlight, trees encroaching on the perimeters of what was once a site for extracting treasures from the earth, remains of the operation scattered and broken all throughout the forest floor.

Jack ran a hand over the thick mat of moss on the stone he had chosen, a piece tilted with a slope conducive to him lying down. Sitting down, he untied his boots, setting them aside, and unbuttoned his vest and shirt, folding them. He shivered when the air penetrated his skin, carrying a wintry hint, raising gooseflesh where it brushed cold fingers. "_Kalt_," he whispered, slipping quickly out of his pants and lying on his stomach, head resting on his elbow, moss soft and springy underneath his weight. Ennis worked as quickly as he could, aware that the light would not last long, and with the dark would come the icy chill. He swept out loose shapes in the background, knowing he could come back to them later if necessary. Then he switched to his miniver brush, biting the inside of his cheek as he guided his wrist along the subtle line of Jack's form, pausing for a breath at the dip in his back, a valley that arched into pale mountains of snow-white eroticism. Swallowing, he followed the line to its end, looping back up to create his legs, and up to the torso, a detour southwards for the arm, elbow crooked, and crowning him off with a half-moon face.

As he worked, the colors melded until they became right, shadows formed where the light would not touch, and the pieces stopped being pieces and became a part of something greater, a whole that captured on linen a spark of life, neoteric and frail, divine in its weakness. He nursed it with each stroke, wary of breaking it with heavy-handed attempts. It sustained, but would not grow and finally, acknowledging defeat, he sat back on the wall, exhausted through and through.

After a few moments, Jack sat up on the stone, reaching his hands for the sky and sighing with the pleasure of it, muscles resisting at first. He stood and did a fast series of stretches, paying special care to his shoulders, tight from the awkward positioning. Pulling his left arm across his chest, he watched Ennis standing before the canvas, hair flying in all different directions and shirt half-open, no doubt loosened while he was painting. Jack walked over, careful to avoid sharp edges underfoot; he felt a strange sense of primal being, completely at the mercy of the forest. Ennis was entranced, lost in his work; he gasped when Jack pressed up behind him.

Jack slipped his hands, living ice, under the rough shirt. He let his fingertips roam freely on the gold silk, radiant with heat and light, bringing the blood back to his fingertips, pulling the shirt up and off Ennis without breaking contact, skin meeting skin, and undid the pants with two fingers. He brought his head forward, nuzzling in the salty nape, biting lightly on the earlobe.

"_Ich bin kalt, Ennis. Sehr kalt._" He flicked his tongue out in exploration and ground his hips into Ennis, sealing the distance between them, edges fusing as winter touched summer, flakes of snow melting on his lips when they kissed. Ennis turned, his hands thawing trails down Jack's spine, fierce caresses guiding them back to the wall, stumbling closer together with each step. Their tongues twined, dancing together, tasting like the rain of a sudden storm, sweet and wet, drenching them in slick sensation. Ennis placed his hands firmly under Jack, hands sinking into the snow-covered fields, murmuring revelry into the moist heat of Jack's mouth, lifting him onto the rocky wall, placed him atop the bed of moss. They clung, heartbeats co-mingling rhythm, lips fitted in a sacred seam, breaking only for harsh breathing, a whispered _Nicht so kalt jetzt, ja?_, and Jack groaned his assent, jutting his hips higher, calling to Ennis in wordless entreaty. Ennis drew back, bringing his hands onto Jack's bones, gateway to the dreams he dared not speak. The clouds cleared from his eyes; they flashed with the fire of night, gaze meeting the cobalt water that promised dreams he dared not hope. With a deliberate agony, he dove into the depths of those pools, locking their eyes; the moss was damp and giving under his palms, Jack's skin so cold it burned at his touch. He slid his length into the heart of the storm, every inch flaring his nerve endings into screaming want, inciting a frantic desperation, but he maintained his course, moving with the patience of a mountain, rewarded by the sight of Jack, head rolled back and neck overflowing with his cries, veins pulsing on his skin, chest heaving. His skin glowed in the waning light of dusk.

"_Jack… Mein Gott…"_

Ennis was lost in Jack, lost in this man who brought tears to his eyes with need, and when he sank to fullness, he abdicated the throne of his sanity, finding that he could only pray for more and more and more, plunging into the lucent depths in search of relief from the need clutching his every cell, spiraling into the turbulent blue and still he pressed closer. Jack's legs gripped him in a steel vise, wrapping tight enough to stop the blood in its tracks, rising from the stone to meet every request for more, and Ennis pushed forward until there was nothing left of him but a body howling a cry to tear the heavens apart. They convulsed with the feel of each other, riding the crest into the black of night, pain and joy and sweet relief all tangled, mouths coming together to exchange incoherent syllables of bliss, and as the sun surrendered its last bit of light to dark, they unraveled together, falling in sated pieces onto the vibrant bed of moss.


	7. Part I: Dusk, Kapitel 7: At The Eldorado

**February 22, 1933**

_Institut für Sexualwissenschaft _(Institute for the Science of Sexuality)

Jack held the bandage on his arm, throbbing from the glinting metal they had used to sample his blood, biding his time until Abraham returned. Morbidly fascinated, he stared at the graph on the wall entitled "Side View of Female Sexual Organs," following the twines of pink with his eyes from top to bottom, a meandering journey from the launching point to the final destination. But what was the final destination—the union of genetic material or the expulsion of it? Jack smiled wryly. He'd never had such thoughts before he came here; the Institute was always to be placing new paradigms of observation into his thought process. This was also the closest he'd ever come to the internal workings of a woman—discounting the minor detail of his birth.

He was on to the frontal view when Abraham opened the door, examining his clipboard and muttering to himself, but he walked in Jack's direction with unerring accuracy, even removed the bandage without looking up from his papers, his thin fingers making quick work. Jack resisted the urge to lean over his shoulder and take a peek at what was so fascinating—as admirable as Abraham's work was, he'd pried about the details one time over coffee and found out much more than he ever wanted to know about the human body. He had very little desire to see its inner workings laid out in front of him, intimate beyond intimacy, the most visceral kind of intrusion. He waited patiently while Abraham mulled over his desk, flipping through papers, brows knitted in deep concentration and muttering under his breath.

He looked up at Jack, blinking, his large liquid eyes slowly coming back to reality. "I didn't look at your arm yet, did I?" He said, more to himself than Jack, and walked around the desk, running his hands over his white coat nervously, smoothing non-existent wrinkles. Jack held out his arm to be examined; his skin was blanched around the wound, a corona of white around a red areole—by now he could not judge himself that it would heal up just fine in a few days.

"_Gut, es ist gut_," Abraham said, retying the bandage. He pulled an envelope from within the folds of one of his endless lab coat pocket, offering it to Jack, "Before I forget," and went back to jot down a few more notes. Jack rolled his sleeves down, buttoning the cuffs of his white shirt, and folded the envelope in half, slipping it into his pocket of his brown jacket.

"Ready to go?" Abraham asked; he shed his outer skin, tossing the thin white fabric over the back of the chair. Jack nodded, shrugging on his heavy wool coat, the fingers of his right hand still a bit slow to work the buttons. He flexed his arm hoping that the soreness wouldn't last beyond tomorrow; he was modeling again tomorrow night—he needed to be in top form.

"_Wohin_, _mein Freund_?" Jack inquired, tossing his scarf over his shoulder and rubbing his palms together in preparation for the brisk night air they were about to face.

"Eldorado? Giese said he might meet us there." Abraham led the way out, having donned his own heavy attire, tugging carefully at the bottom of his black gloves to get them on securely as they descended the stairs. The carpet swallowed the impact of their shoes and the building was silent; the patients were gone for the night. Only the occasional scratch of pen could be heard as they passed the offices.

"As long as I don't have to watch the dancers, they are some of the worst in this city has to offer." They made their way through the empty waiting room and out into the descending night. The moon had not yet risen but there were no traces of the sun left in the blue-blackening twilight, clear and open as the face upturned to it.

"And you are the most critical audience in all of Berlin. Even Fritz has admitted that their routine is fine." Abraham shot Jack a look, eyebrows hiked into positions of skepticism as he slid his hands into his deep pockets.

"Fritz just wanted to impress you, he knows that you are a philanthropist above all. He still talks about the, hmmm, philanthropy of those lovely eyes of yours."

Abraham rolled said eyes, his thick dark lashes fanned out against his pale skin. "Doesn't he realize he's quite too young and pretty for me?"

Vapors of laughter billowed in front of Jack's face in the bitter chill. "I warned him you were the old, decrepit sort, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, he did not believe it."

Abraham just laughed, eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement, but it was joyless, and his face was shadowed in the dim lamplight, all the contours hewn melancholy. "Sometimes I do wonder if I will find anyone." His smile unfurled into a frown, dropping with the cadence of his confession. "I am certain that if you told Fritz the details of my work he would never want to speak to me again."

Jack clicked under his tongue, stepping sideways without missing a beat and wrapping his arm around Abraham's shoulder to bring their bodies together into one thick column. He held his friend close until their steps fell into time, their polished black shoes tapping out their pace on the cobbled sidewalk, and the dew caught the glare of the lamps laying out a path of light laid out before them.

"You are a savior of souls, _mein Freund _… never forget that."

Abraham's tone was still low, but his chin raised up a bit. "You cabaret boys and your flattery."

"I am no sycophant. It is not in my nature, I'm sure you know this by now. And don't you remember, the first day I came in? Fräulein Kopf told me that you gave her back your life? That was no flattery."

"_Ich…_" Abraham nodded, squeezing Jack's gloved hand on his shoulder. "_Danke,_ Jacob. _Danke_." Releasing Jack's hand, he chuckled, lifting the weight from the air. "It can be hard to remember such things when I see the lovesick look on your face, _Schatz_. Is it still this same painter you were telling me about, hmm?"

"_Ja_…" Jack licked his lips, gaze suddenly riveted on the pattern of clouds in the sky, following the immaterial blue-black wisps.

"Oh? And where are my sordid details, pray tell? I do distinctly recall you promising them to me."

"_Ich…ach so…_" Jack shrugged non-commitally and averted his eyes, discomfiture shaping his posture, voice dropping a register, "I'm… I'm not sure there's anything sordid about it, Abraham."

Abraham's eyebrows climbed to incredulous heights. "You jest?" As he examined Jack's countenance they lowered to furrow in thought. "Are you blushing, _Schatz_? My Jacob, blushing?"

Jack nudged him on the shoulder, trying to escape that voracious stare, his own eyes riveted like twin headlights on sidewalk before him. "Smelling too many of those chemicals again at work again, Abraham?"

Abraham abruptly stopped walking. "I cannot believe. You are being _shy _ with me!" A grin consumed his face, all traces of the grim frown lines smoothed in one fell swoop.

"Come along now, we're almost there. And I am most certainly _not _ blushing." Jack glowered and shook his head, kicking his foot impatiently against the pavement.

Abraham resumed their trek, still smiling radiant, teeth flashing his effervescent amusement. "I think I must meet this man who can reduce you to such a state."

Jack replied quickly, relieved at the change in topic, "Perhaps… but he is not what I would call 'social.'"

Abraham laughed lightly, "Afraid I'll embarrass you, dear?"

"Normally I'd say yes—" Jack smiled a little, "but this time… well…" He ran a hand over his face, sighing gustily. "I'm not even certain that he always wants to see _me_."

"What ever would make you think that, Jacob?"

"I can't precisely say. It's just… his paintings. Of me. When I'm modeling sometimes I watch him paint and his intensity—it truly defies description. But when he stops, it's almost as if he sees what he's done for the first time. And that he… hates it."

"He's dissatisfied with the quality of his work?"

"It's beautiful. More than beautiful. You will know if you ever see it. But that isn't his concern. I think he's compelled to do it much like I am compelled to dance. But… unlike me, he can still see what he has done after the fact and it… frightens him. None of the work he has started in our sessions has survived."

"The classical tortured artist, na?"

"Perhaps." Jack shrugged. "You might have to meet him to see."

"You know I would love to. Since your father is lax in his duties I will duly ensure that he is worth your time."

Jack chuckled, "Always a comfort, Abraham."

"That is what—" he paused, squinting ahead, "Hmm. That is strange."

Jack looked to what had caught Abraham's attention; a crowd was thick around The Eldorado, bottlenecked around the door like leaves caught in the gutter and spilling over onto the sidewalk. The people leaked like dark water out of the club, flowing slow around the entrance. Jack and Abraham came to the rippling edges and stopped at the fluxing barrier of bodies.

"Why are they leaving?" Abraham asked, trying to peer around the edges. Jack tried to stand on the balls of his feet to get a better view, the hard soles of his boots resisting the contortion, but with a harsh cry of "Outof the way," he was shoved roughly to the side. He tripped over his feet, throwing his arms wide to regain his balance, bracing himself when he stumbled into his fellow onlookers. "'_Tschuldigung_," he said over and over, re-aligning himself with the vertical and trying to find Abraham in the mayhem. When his vision re-oriented he saw uniformed men, their long dark overcoats cinched high on the waist, their backs scissored in half by long, narrow guns. They fought through the crowd with a mechanistic efficiency, screaming orders left and right, elbowing indiscriminately, delivering swift kicks with their pitch black boots when they seemed to deem it necessary. A wave of sensory overload swept when he watched these men; tingles pricked his nerves and nausea burned acidic tendrils in his stomach and up to his throat. All he could see was a man was silhouetted above him, the curved brim of his hat distorting his shape, the sharpness of his shoulders cutting harsh on the soft light, and his face held in the darkness, hoarding it close so that it pooled deep around his eyes.

_ It was hell, Jacob. Hell.  
_

Jack waved his hands in futility, closing his eyes so hard he could hear his heartbeat pushing on the inside of his eyelids, "_ i Nein! NEIN/i _"

_ Jacob…  
_

"Jacob!"

Jack blinked rapidly when he heard Abraham's voice, whiplashing back to reality. The imagery of the world slowly right itself again, forming into patterns that made sense and he wiped the sheen of cold sweat from his brow with aftershocked trembling hands, "Abraham? _ i Wo bist du /i _?"

"_Hier_!" Abraham's hand appeared as a pale apparition above the curdling mass of unidentifiable heads and Jack made his way towards it with spine-numbing relief and tunnel vision that allowed him to shove his way through the press.

Jack was able to breathe again when he saw Abraham's face. His tongue was thick in his mouth, unwilling to cooperate with him. "_ i W–w–w–wir muss–mussen_—_ /i _"

"_Ja_," Abraham interjected before Jack could finish, grabbing him firmly by the arm and towing Jack in his wake, cutting their way out. They broke free and were able to walk side-by-side but Abraham still made no move to let go of his arm, though his grip gentled; his head darted back and forth as if he was scouting their way.

"_Was_…?" Jack couldn't stop his head from straining, drawn with morbid magnetic force to look back.

"_Ich weiss es nicht, Jacob_. _Aber…_" he trailed off, voice covered by the slap of boots on cobble, and veered them sharply to the side of the street. Jack's feet stopped moving abruptly as the men came into his line of vision; Abraham tried urgently to pull him along but he had no strength, no momentum.

He was frozen in time.

Even as one of the men broke off from the line to stand in front of them, cursing and telling them to move along, what were they looking at, he couldn't respond. His thoughts were crystallized into stagnation, words stuck behind his teeth. And when the man's face transformed into something wholly inhumane and he spit at Jack's feet, _dirty fucking Jew_, it didn't make any sense.

He didn't even feel the butt of the gun connect with his temple.


	8. Part I: Dusk, Kapitel 8: The Afternoon

The sunlight curled its warm fingers through Ennis's hair, tousling the already-unruly waves and illuminating the strands into white brilliance with its touch. His eyes were closed in relaxation, hands clasped behind his neck to form a cushion against the rock he'd propped up on, legs crossed at the ankles. Jack ran an idle index over the intricate lettering on the wine bottle following the curves of the word _Riesling_, enjoying the flavor in his mouth and its linguistic description with his finger, the tactile and oral pleasures mixing to create a sensual drowsiness. The brightness filtered through the glass of bottle and showed that it had been almost drained of its content, now a vessel for the pure sylvan air.

"Wine helps me dance, you know," he commented, nail carving along the _R_.

Ennis just grunted, a flicker playing over his lips, did not open his eyes. Jack shot him a look when he heard the note of skepticism curling at the edges of the utterance.

"They say wine flows in your blood after you drink it, and that is what feels so good? Well, dancing is in my blood, too—my father was a dancer. Before the war, anyway." Jack used his hands to carefully levy himself upright. Stretching his foot before him, he tapped Ennis with his toe, trying to catch his attention.

"Would he approve of your alcoholic dancing shoes?" Ennis said, still refusing to open his eyes.

"That isn't really any of his business. He tried to stop me from dancing and that was his first mistake." Jack slowly raised his right leg up, holding it close to his body in a beautifully contortionistic stretch. "I left home before I was even apprenticed; I would have been happy to go anywhere. But, luckily, Niko took me in."

Ennis slitted his vision, watching Jack's form move in its slow, earthy rhythm. "

"You've never painted with… a few spirits?" Jack asked, sweeping his body down in a fast scissor motion, leg swinging out behind him and arms thrown out to his sides.

"_Ach so_… _ja_. _Aber…_ "

"_Aber nichts_," Jack said, voice distorting as he curved his body back, spine bending into a feline arch. "I posit that wine is the elixir of the arts." He stretched so far back that he landed on his elbows, and arched down slowly like melting metal; when he was on the ground once more, he came to rest on his side, facing Ennis.

"How did you find this place?" He asked. "It is beautiful… perfect seclusion."

Ennis opened his eyes slowly, with care; he tipped his head back but did not blink against three o'clock's brightness. "_Ich_…" His gaze moved from the aerial to the _terra firma_, skimming over the grasses beginning to grow at the edges of the quarry, the border between forest and meadow, twilight and glory. "I came here when I was young."

"Oh?" Jack glanced at Ennis, noting the rarity of his expression—his features were cut fine in the light, skin smooth and unmarred by worry, like a palm held open under the sun, a fist unclenched in the warmth of the day. Jack didn't move a muscle, silliness and irreverence forgotten; he barely breathed, aware that even the most insubstantial touch might upset the balance, just watched and waited.

Ennis picked up his glass of wine, rolling the stem, taking a small sip. "My father brought us here. He loved the city; that is why he came here. But he had grown up in a small _Stadt_ up north where you could hardly walk two steps without falling into forest like this."

Jack rolled fluidly onto his back, interlacing his fingers over his chest. His lips tugged up at the corners when he heard Ennis continue without further prompting.

"He did not want his children to grow up knowing only the buildings and streets, so we came here at least once a week. My mother would read to us, Karl would fly his kite in the meadow over there," Ennis gestured with his left hand to the flat expanse that lay at the outskirts of the trees, "and Elena would pick flowers." Ennis smiled, touching two fingers to his neck. "We always went home wearing necklaces of flowers like we were kings of the forest."

Jack's reply slipped soft from his lips. "That sounds wonderful."

"It has been many years since I returned here. After my parents died, we moved to Dresden, and then Karl brought me to Vienna. But when I realized we needed to catch the afternoon light… this was the first place I thought of." Ennis brought the glass to his lips, taking a long draining sip; it was unclear whether he was dousing the memory or pulling it up into clearer relief. Jack tilted his head upwards, the gentle smile fully formed and playing over features.

Ennis's brow furrowed. "_Was_?"

"_Also…_ " Jack shrugged against the vibrant grass. "I was enjoying the sound of your voice. It is usually your eyes or brush that speak for you."

Ennis's brow furrowed deeper; he worried at his lower lip, wringing his hands in his lap. Taking a breath, he laid down beside Jack, propping himself up on his right elbow so that their faces were even. He weighed his words carefully; when he gave them to Jack, they carried the significance of his careful and long-drawn consideration.

"That is because, with you, my eyes listen and my brush speaks."

Jack's breath caught when their eyes met, cobalt skies skimming crested earthen mountaintops. "They say… they say that an artist's eyes are never at rest."

Ennis smiled, a sunrise breaking through the mountain's peaks. "And they are right. Even as I speak I cannot stop myself from observing everything that is around me." The words tumbled out as if he could not help them. "I cannot stop myself from observing you."

Jack ran his tongue over parched lips. "What do you see?"

"Well…" Ennis raised his hand, "your left eyebrow dips just a bit below your right." His knuckles gentled along the path of his narration, his voice low and rustling. He traced a thumb over the outer edge of Jack's ear, tracing the delicate bone structure and Jack shuddered deep in his spine, undone by the simplicity of the contact. "Your ears are shaped like butterfly wings."

Ennis leaned closer, bringing them within breathing distance, his throat working as he bridged the distance between them. "The shadows always gather at the bottom of your eyes, just below your eyelashes." His voice had dropped a register, scratching in his throat as he struggled to breathe evenly. "The corners of your lip turn up just a bit." His fingers trembled over the surface of Jack's lips, "Curved like cupid's bow… like nothing I have ever seen."

Ennis's whisper might have been Jack's own. "_Sind_… _perfekt_."

Jack only had to part his lips and they were joined, the mountains falling to meet the sky, hands seeking and finding anchors in the flesh. The flavor of wine sparked on their tongues, bodies clinched close, thighs to hips to chests, tasting and discovering in each other in physical sensation that bordered on rapture, the aroma of crushed grass sharp underneath them. A kiss that spoke more than a language could ever contain, an art that can only manifest in the moment of love's finest revelry.

Jack pressed closer to Ennis, knees catching, the hollows of their ankles brushing, legs tangled up into a disarray of intimacy. He ran his thumb pads over Ennis's face, lingering in the sharpness of his cheekbones, raising his head up so that he could look at Ennis in the full light. He was flushed, warm, smelling of wine and desire and perfection, eyelids dropped down but not concealing the flash of amber that was like Jack had swallowed the sun. The wind caressed the leaves that canopied them, soughing quietly.

Ennis saw Jack backlit by a corona of brilliance, luminescent even in the shadows, eyelashes and eyebrows like heavy smudges of charcoal on the canvas of his pale skin. He was like the light that God had never seen fit to grant Ennis. "_Mein Engel_," he whispered, raising a hand reverently, "My dark angel."

Jack barely heard the words, lost in Ennis. "I wish I could see as you do."

Ennis looked away, strange emotions rising to take hold of him; but looking back at Jack, drawn ineffably, he saw a grim reminder that felt like cold water trickling down his skin.

"But I have also seen this," he whispered, grim, touching the purpling bruise that leaked discoloration through Jack's temple.

Jack blinked, confused at first; he shuttered down when understanding came. Brushing Ennis's inquiry away, he covered the mark with his own hand, trembling. " i _Es ist_ _nichts_ /i ."

"_Ach ja_?" The skepticism has returned in full force. "It does not look like nothing."

"What, you do not believe me?" Fear came out as anger, mangled, torn and bloody.

"I didn't say that…" Ennis said, trying to verbally backpedal, but Jack was already back on the attack.

"_Und… wer ist Alma_?" The question was out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying. It was the question he'd been afraid to ask; the question he didn't really want to know the answer for.

Ennis started to sit up, successfully distracted. "You know who she is." A pause. "Don't you?"

Jack shook his head, lips compressed. "You mentioned her but once."

Ennis swallowed. "She is my…" He rubbed his hand over his face, heaving a sigh, and tried once more. "We are to be married in early May."

He nodded and stood perfunctorily. "We'd best be getting back. Wouldn't want to keep her waiting."

"Jack…"

The shutters closed down full, locked tight; the cobalt drained into hard glinting sapphire, cut sharp and unyielding.

They walked all the way back to the city in complete silence.


	9. Part I: Dusk, Kapitel 9: Shifting

**Note: ** Just wanted to say that I am aware there are some typos in the previous chapters (including a few ridiculous German errors that I made partially because I was rushing to post my chapters). But short of re-uploading I'm not sure how to fix it? I'll definitely be trying to check these future chapters more carefully though :)

* * *

_February 28, 1933_

Ennis wiped the rag over his fingers roughly, brushing off the worst of the charcoal dust but he had no illusions of true cleanliness: the black was as deeply imprinted into his hands as his own fingerprints, lined into his skin as art was suffused in his soul. He tossed the rag into his open canvas bag, nearly packed up for the day. For the final dismantling, he unclipped the last three blank pages from his easel—it had been a good day, the marks weighed heavy in his pocket—and rolled them up into tight cylinders, slipping twine over both ends. After he'd tied them into his shirt pocket he collected the charcoal and started wrapping it up in the dirty rag. His mind was already forty paces ahead of him, encased in the soft candlelight and slanted ceilings of his attic room.

A shadow fell across him as he worked, cutting a dark diagonal through the dusk's sinking light. A figure stood before him, clad in black, a somber mass. Seeing the dark fabric hands stilled at this task, as if by pausing in time he could hold onto the possibility of the moment, crystallize what it was he wanted to see.

"_Guten Tag_." The strange voice, heedless, froze his fragile and exposed hopes like a young bird in the season's first snow.

Ennis straightened, squinting. "_Guten Tag_."

The man proffered a hand and Ennis took it, still reluctant; a strange shudder passed through him arm at the touch. The man's skin cool and dry as paper.

"_Ich hei_**_ß_**_e Stuttmeier, Harold Stuttmeier_." He stepped forward into visibility, the pale light finding a home on his equally pale face; his aquiline features looked as if they had been chiseled from ice, deficient of all color. He had the pallor of the newly dead and eyes the color of a washed-out winter sky, blue so faint that it leaked into its surroundings and was lost.

"_Demarien_," Ennis said simply, withdrawing his hand and gravitating back, thrown out of his regular orbital.

"You are done for the day?" Stuttmeier supplied when Ennis remained silent.

Ennis nodded, tearing his gaze away from the stranger and moving to break down the easel, yet Stuttmeier had not moved when he straightened, hoisting the easel under his arm.

"I will be here in the morrow if you'd like a portrait."

"That is what I am here to speak to you about. I was told that you are not quite… in the habit of accepting commissions."

"_Das stimmt_." He grabbed the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Stuttmeier smiled, no teeth, thin and colorless. "I think mine is an offer that you cannot refuse."

The only visible response was a slight tightening along Ennis's jawline.

His smile thinned. "I can see that you do not believe me, Herr Demarien. But I tell you truthfully that if you paint for me you'll never have to waste your time on these streets again." Stuttmeier spread his hands, fanning out his thin fingers. "I only ask for two nights a week. I will be needing portraits continuously throughout our campaigns and I know you are the man to do it."

"How are you so sure?" He did not loosen, but he did not tighten, either.

"Your work is displayed throughout the city, my boy. It does not take a critic's eyes to see the caliber of your work, and in the coming months I will need that caliber." A blue fire lit in Stuttmeier's eyes. "You will be well compensated for your work, but the true reward will come from participating in one of the greatest political revolutions our country has ever seen."

Stuttmeier stepped forward, placing one hand on Ennis's shoulder. "You do not have to answer me now, Herr Demarien. But do consider my offer." He presented a card between two fingers, white rectangle held out. "This is how you can find me. I will return here in four days for your answer."

Ennis took the card, staring at the red swastika on the corner of the thick paper long after Stuttmeier had walked away.

* * *

_February 23, 1919_

_Berlin, Germany_

The scent of melting butter curled in Ennis's nose when he opened the door, the sack in his hands now emptied of feed. He bounded into the kitchen, shoes slapping hard on the wooden floor, unable to contain his curiosity for what his mother was cooking. Skidding to a halt just short of knocking into her legs, he held forward the bag, head craned up to look at her.

"I finished feeding the chickens, mama."

Birgid Demarien smiled, setting down her wooden spoon. She lifted the small bowl she'd been holding away from the flames, swirling the melted butter around inside the perimeter to check its readiness.

"And no chasing them around the yard this time?" She said, wiping her hands off on her apron before taking the bag from Ennis's eager hands. Folding the burlap bag up, she walked back into the storeroom, Ennis fast at her heels.

Ennis shook his head gravely. "I know, mama. Only little boys chase chickens around the yard."

She smiled, "_Das ist richtig_." She grabbed various ingredients from the shelves, holding two large sacks and grabbing a pinch of salt from inside a jar. Her dark hair flew around her face in unruly curls and she was flushed from working over the fire, but she looked beautiful to Ennis in the way only a mother can to a boy of five. "Now, come help me make this bread, Karl and Elena will be home in a few hours."

He watched her sprinkle flour on the wood, her fine hands making quick work of the dough, kneading it down in no time. Kicking his feet under the table, he leaned his chin forward onto his hands.

"Mama."

"Mmm?" She murmured, working the flat of her palm against the pliant dough, brown strands of hair scattering over her forehead in loose corkscrews.

"Will I grow up to look like papa?"

She tilted her head to the side, giving Ennis a look. "Of course you will, Ennis. What a strange question."

He considered her answer, biting his lip.

"But Elena isn't going to grow up to look like you, mama."

"Well… that is true. She won't look like me or your papa, she will look like…" She waved her hand in the air, searching for a word. "She will look like Elena, just as she should. And you won't look exactly like papa." She smiled, brushing his cheek with a powdered white knuckle, "You will be so dashing and handsome, though, anyway."

"But Karl looks just like papa. Papa says so all the time." He frowned, face scrunching up. "I don't think papa likes the way I look."

"Oh, Ennis." She got out of her chair, grabbed a damp towel from the counter, and after wiping her hands off she laid it atop the dough. Sitting in the chair once more she patted on her thighs and Ennis came to her, a frown still weighing down his face.

She said nothing for a long time, just holding him close.

"You know that papa loves you just as much as he loves Karl, don't you?" She smoothed her hand over his hair. Ennis just buried his face in his mother's chest, holding her apron tight in his small fists. He wanted to believe her.

But he had no reason to.

* * *

_February 28, 1933_

"Marguerite tells me there will be plenty of boys there, too," Loreen said, arching and eyebrow before she opened the drawer and to pull out a box of matches and candle.

"I'm sure you will have a marvelous time." Jack crossed his legs, looking pointedly at the tips of his freshly-shone black shoes.

"_Was_?" Abraham surely does not have you working another late night? I was so hoping you could come." She held the match to the candle carefully, shielding the budding flame with a cupped hand.

"I really can't."

"Oh?"

"If you must know—"

"—I must." She shot him a grin and carefully laid the curling iron atop the flame to heat up.

He sighed, smiling ruefully. "I thought you might say that. Well… if you must know… I am modeling."

Loreen turned so fast that her hair flew out in rapid swirls around her head, dress matching it pace for pace, black satin waves rippling at her waist, cresting with her momentum.

"And just _what_ do you think you are doing?" She stalked over and fixed Jack with a stare that had melted the resolve of many a weaker man, many a weaker woman, for that matter. "Did you not tell me but two days ago that he is engaged?"

"I did." Jack swung his feet off the armrest of the chaise and made room for her. She took the seat with a glare, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

Her eyes narrowed. "Then I do not understand."

"We made an agreement. I am in his employ."

"Paying you does not give him ownership over you!" She banged her fist on the armrest, noise muffled by the red velvet. The passion that she brought to everything in life—be it singing, loving, or friendship—shone through now, blazing in her eyes and her clenched fist.

"You know I need the money, Loreen." He rubbed his hand over his forehead. "_Mein Vater… er ist sehr krank_."

She put a hand on Jack's shoulder, concern warring with anger on her features. "I know. I do know, _Schatz_. But there are plenty of jobs Niko would give you around here if that is what you really need."

He threw his hands up in the air. "I do not know what I really need. All I know is… I want to keep modeling. Even if it nothing more."

"You do not need him. You do not. Not his job, not his money, not his anything." She grabbed one of his hands, trying to get him to look at her. "He _lied_ to you, Jack."

"Loreen, I never asked him. I do not see the part where he lied."

"You didn't have to ask! What he did was wrong, no matter what light it is shown in."

The past three days' agony lined his voice. "I know."

Loreen slid closer to him, putting a hand on Jack's face. She brought his gaze to meet hers, but she hardly recognized the man sitting before her now. This Jack had a heaviness to him, a weight of knowledge, yearning bunched in his muscles, resolve cording strength even in his despair. She felt like she was watching him age right before her eyes.

Her tone gentled now with understanding. "You love him, don't you?"

When Jack laid his head down into her lap, eyes closed tight and breathing shallow she had her answer.

If only she knew what to do with it.


	10. Interlude: Drabble

This was written to fulfill a request on my LiveJournal: "I would very much like a drabble (100 words exactement, s'il vous plait!) set in the 'Nightfall' universe, and my chosen title is 'Burnt Sausages and Purple Hair.'"

**Burnt Sausages and Purple Hair**

The smell of the burning meat flooded his nostrils, invading and conquering, leaving his appetite and anticipation fallen like innocents on the battlefield. Alma swore in her strangely innocent way behind him and he closed his eyes to her, groping blindly towards the window.

Lights sparked behind his lids, catching the folds of a black shirt that strained with the man's fervent movements, dark hair glowing purple and violet and crimson with the phantasm that filled the Shangri-La's stage.

Smoke curled in the air, sinuous strands, acrid but sweet on his lips, and he smiled, content to watch the dance.


	11. Part I: Dusk, Kapitel 10: Threads

The fog moved under his feet in serpentine swirls, curling up his boots in inquiring tendrils, the damp creeping like vines under his clothing and leaving vaporous night kisses, shrouding his eyes and he found a certain safety in this blanketed anonymity, this ghostly existence.

He breathed the air, tangible in his mouth and in his ears, muffling him and everything he came in contact with, a shroud of silence that clung tight to his form. Hunched, he traced the achingly familiar steps, every a one strumming the web of tension humming in his muscles. His body knew where he walked, reacting before his mind did, and he closed his eyes to the veil of white, fighting its siren's call to step where he was not welcome, to dance with abandon when he knew that every footfall was a risk.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, but they trembled for other reasons. The building appeared before him like a sentinel in the night, foreboding, dark, a savagery of angularity, panes of glass reflecting a deeper black than the fog would allow the night to embrace.

The key felt like fitted ice in his fingers, and even as he turned the lock he jutted his chin out as if refusing to believe his own actions. The door creaked, sliding heavily over the tiles slick from dew, and the stairs did not welcome his weight, announcing his progress at every turn.

He stood before the door for an interminable amount of time, letting his fingers roam over the brass Arabic numbers. The gold of the "one" was beginning to erode at the edges, yet he smiled at it, like he could sympathize. The "nine" provided a smooth motion for his wrist, a flow that brought a spark to his eye, cerulean emerging once more from the mist-clouded gray.

Fate smiled and the knob turned soundlessly under his ministration; his lips began a tentative journey upwards, lifting every-so-slightly at the edges. The light from Ennis's room cut a thin razor's blade of wan yellow across his face, growing into sharply-edged slash as he eased wood away from wood.

The sight that greeted his expectant gaze was more than unexpected—it was ice in his veins.

Ennis was pure elemental beauty, charcoal scratching in his canvas in a song that honored the silence of inspiration, his golden-fire lion's mane licking flames around his head, the loose white linen on his upper body already stained with the work of his craft, like gems caught in the sun briefly before being submerged once more in desert sand. He was a glory to behold, light and radiance and passion painted in such exquisite relief against his darkness.

The man sitting ruler-back erect in Ennis's unfinished stool, on the other hand, was everything Ennis was not. Their coloring could be called similar only in the most superficial sense; where Ennis was hued and vibrant, this man was ashen and frozen. His hair, blonde to the point of being white, was combed in neatness so harshly articulated that it cast the rest of his features in a frightening light. Jutting cheekbones cradled eyes that recalled the winter's most frigid sky and thin lips cut contemptuously across the rigid expanse, held in perfect stillness. His whole figure, cut in slim angles and tailored to exact lines, radiated authority as much as the suit he wore, black and red blurring in Jack's vision as he fought to breathe.

Jack passed eternal moments taking the scene in, his eyes gradually fading back to the mist-clouded grey as the implications roared in the silence.

He closed the door with as little event as he'd opened it, fading outside. The fog enveloped him and he let the colorless night swallow him up once more.

* * *

_October 16, 1931_

_Dresden_

Elena's face aged before his eyes, like a painting left to the elements, cracking at all the important seams, vitality draining with each moment that she looked down at him. She clutched her hands at her chest, watching him with wild, mournful eyes. The new snow peppered the air around them, flaking down into the spreading puddle of vomit that lay like a testament between them, Elena in her slippers in front of the doorway, Ennis barely able to prop himself up on one elbow on the cobblestones that lined their drive.

"You are seventeen today." It sounded like a death sentence.

He just looked at her, running his tongue across his lips, cracked and bleeding, refusing to heal because he constantly probed the pain, numb to it, or perhaps, addicted to it. There were no answers he could give for himself anymore, no promises left in the broken shell that was crumbling at her feet.

"Karl will be here in a week to take you back to Vienna with him."

Ennis surged feebly, shoulders and joints trembling under the strain. He scraped out one word. "_Warum?_"

The handkerchief Elena had been wringing between her hands fluttered onto the stones, a white flag of surrender.

"There is nothing more I can do for you, brother."

Every protesting muscle in Ennis's body rebelled at her assertion, tightening and coiling rejection. Shuddering with convulsions of frost under his skin, he reached one trembling hand out.

"Elena… _bitte_…"

She turned, stopping for a breath between giving up and nurturing hope in the doorway. Her words carried the weight of a gavel echoing through a courtroom after the sentence has been pronounced.

"There's nothing more we can do for you, Ennis." Her head fell. "Goodbye."

* * *

_October 16, 1931_

_Berlin_

Jack jittered like lightning in his seat, barely able to remain earthbound. He roiled with demonic energy, shoulders set into storm-brewing lines, jaw pulled taut like an overstrung instrument, every movement a battle to keep himself in check.

"_Herr Schwarz?_" A voice pitched to soothing inquired and instead of bolting up, he looked, taking in the parched white lab coat, the dark hair and large liquid eyes. When his assessment reached a deciding point, he rose, offering a shaky hand and smile.

"_Ich bin Doktor Abraham._ Come with me, please, and we'll begin."

Jack's posture relaxed enough to let him follow Abraham. The imposing appearance of the building belied its inviting interior, the pastel carpets swallowing the sound of their passage through the hallways adorned equally with art and information—with a few, it was hard to tell which was which. Dr. Abraham's gait was easy; he did not hurry or linger, greeting his colleagues and telling Jack in soft voice about the various rooms and their functions, sweeping away the cobwebs of rumors and hearsay that surrounded this Institute and its work.

Abraham's office was an interesting mixture of clinical and social; his political affiliations demanded recognition, as did his scientific expertise. They interwove into a atmosphere that was both welcoming and cautionary, riding the edge but not inviting all who entered to skirt it. They sat themselves on the earthen brown couch; somewhere along the way, Abraham had shed the labcoat and papers.

"I…" Jack swallowed, a breath of solid anticipation lodged in his throat.

Abraham placed a hand on his, hovering lightly so that Jack had the room to refuse it. He did not.

His voice was gentle, and the words that should have carried the weight of dread instead unraveled the radial lines of tension, cutting the tethers that had stopped him from coming forward before.

Jack removed his shirt willingly, looking Abraham right in the eye as he bared to light the bruises formed in the same darkness that compelled him here.


End file.
